The New Breed
by Jord
Summary: Bruce is only beginning to find his footing as Gotham's Dark Knight.There's enough amorality in Gotham to fuel Batman's need for justice.An unlikely old-timer,aware that her crimefighting days are nearing an end,helps prepare Batman for dark times ahead.
1. Chapter 1

**I wasn't sure where exactly to place this story - in the comic section, or the movie category. I'm trying to pick up where the graphic novel, Batman: Year One, left off and follow an independent trajectory. But since I really enjoyed Christopher Nolan's depiction of the Batman series, and I liked where he took Bruce Wayne's character (regarding his origins etc.) I've opted to put this story up here instead.**

**It's not much to fawn over, but I'm writing this for 3 **** reasons. **

**One: despite the existence of Catwoman, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn (and some others I'm probably forgetting) I feel that Batman's world is a largely male-dominated one. Now don't get me wrong, almost all of the characters are fantastic - I'm most fond of Commissioner Gordon and Alfred - but I would like for there to be a reasonably sane, and independent female voice among them as well. **

**Two: Bruce Wayne idolized his father. Ra's al Ghul and The League of Shadows has taught Batman much in the way of combat, but you gotta admit, Bruce Wayne has also learned a lot for himself. What seems to be missing - on the occasion - is the mentoring voice. Part of that is provided by Alfred, but when it comes to more warrior-like speak, Bruce pays no heed to poor Alfred's advice. (Which, most of the time, is pretty good advice too!)**

**Three: I know I have no authority to dedicate a story that's part of a copyrighted franchise to anyone, but I kinda wanna dedicate the OC here to my grandmother, Helen, who passed away in 2007. She was a heckuva woman.  
**

**So there you have it. This is my scrap of a story to add to the masses. I enjoyed writing it, and I'm daring to hope that a few of you out there will as well.**

**

* * *

  
**

This is really her town. It's always _been_ her town. Down from the red-light district to Szu-Chi's China Buffet. Of course thirty years ago, the streets weren't layered with a kaleidoscope of litter and grime. Let alone the seemingly indelible goombahs that paroled it. No, it used to be nice. And she meant nice without an accentuation. It used to be nice in the sense that a couple could walk down Hooper Street at nine o'clock at night without being jumped by a mugger. A family didn't have to worry about their kid being grabbed by a pedophile five feet away from them.

But things changed. Things plummet.

The problem therein lay whether she wanted to plummet along with it. Her parents were travelers, writers, adventurers. Her mother, a botanist, had found a kindred spirit in her father, the biologist. Their decision to reside in Gotham was one that tugged invitingly at their more audacious nature. Thirty years ago, America was a tempting place – it was bold and daring. London, by contrast, felt like a pair of comfortable old shoes. To them, at least. They were a wealthy enough couple to afford a costly relocation, and their child was only four at the time. Young enough not to miss any new faces she'd been acquainted with at the day care center near King's Cross. So they crossed the great expanse of the North Atlantic, journeyed patiently through trains and cars and subways, and finally arrived happily – if a little worn - into their two-storey apartment on Gotham's east side.

And, for the next sixteen years, Gotham remained their home. In a sense, of course. Her parents had conferences to attend, acquaintances to establish; they did everything and anything that could elevate themselves amongst the social elite. Far from attaining the status of snobbery amid convivial highbrows, their main purpose of such gallivanting lay in the garnering of funding for their research. In their line of work, it wouldn't do to hole oneself up in the laboratory, slaving over the bench. It didn't bring home the bacon, and it certainly didn't accommodate their enterprising lifestyle.

So twice every year, for the first few years, they would jet off to Munich or Geneva, leaving her in the somewhat capable – but cold – hands of Ms. Auburn, a perpetual neurotic, hypochondriac and overall obsessive compulsive when it came to the vast domain of the household bacterium. The woman was alright, really. And to be fair to Mrs. Auburn's memory, she did have a tendency to revert to outlandish hyperbole when it came to her, but it was hard not to. In the beginning, she missed her parents – but her nostalgic pangs only lasted for a day or two. Despite her mentally maladjusted flaws, Ms. Auburn did have a way of enabling fresher interests. Interests that distracted her from the absence of her parents. She would teach her things – such that she could survive quite well and quite independently for a child of her age. Really, she owed Ms. Auburn a lot.

A police siren wails in the distance, wrenching her out of this sullen reverie. Perched on the wet and darkened brick rooftop that is _Mel's Hardware Store_, she slips on her hood, then the elbow armour, the knee guards and finally the arthritic wrap on her dodgy right wrist. She is forty-five, after all. But despite her proximity towards a geriatric state of mind and body, her motions are all fluid and efficient – the work of skilled hands. Gotta use it while it lasts.

She glances down at herself, studying the black garb – meant to be reminiscent of the unorthodox attire of the _shinobi_, or ninja, and her mouth widens into an ironic grin. The whole get-up is quite hilarious really, seeing as how it's mostly associated with tarnished Hollywood-esque representations of such stealthy assassins. If she wanted to be historically accurate, she'd look like Mrs. Jones next door. She'd dress as a civilian, and more importantly, she'd blend in. But _common_ wasn't quite the vibe she was going for anyway.

The ear-piercing alarms grow steadily louder as she jogs furtively along the roof-tops. In a swift motion, she swings down off the rafters of a building under construction, and slides into the leather seat of a small bike. Before she cranks the engine into gear, she flicks on a rudimentary excuse for a CB radio, mounted to the base of her steering handles. She turns a small knob clockwise, and then anti-clockwise, her ears searching for the correct frequency. Following the passing of a minute or so, she latches onto what she's listening for and waits.

"_Officer Mitchell calling in to reports of a ten-thirty-three in Rawles Avenue, over_."

A brief hiss of static, before: "_Copy that, Mitchell. We got reports of a broken window on the...west entrance of the house. Over_."

"_Mitchell to dispatch. I'm gonna see what the fuss is all about._"

She sighs to herself, her shoulders and arms relaxing underneath her two layers of clothing. A ten-thirty-three meant that some careless wally must have tripped an alarm. She had found that often enough, the noisome ruse was innocent in its emergence. A stray ball through a window, a drunkard forgetting his pass-code into his own home. _They'll tag you as paranoid delusional_, Helen, she tells herself, letting out a deep breath. But she grips the bars of her motorbike nonetheless.

The minutes tick by in the dank alleyway, and it isn't long before the lull of oncoming sleep begins to tug away all thought. But its hypnotic calm is suddenly shattered when her radio crackles to life, the tinny voice urgent and alarmed.

"_Mitchell to dispatch. We have a ten-fifty-four, I repeat: a ten-fifty-four_,"

"_Copy that, Mitchell_," came the steady but detached voice of the female dispatcher. "_We're sending an ambulance on the way now_."

" – _need a goddamn ambulance, dammit!" _cried out the man on the other end, apparently missing the dispatcher's acknowledgement_. "The man's dead. There may be more, but I need to check upstairs –_ "

"_Copy that. We've got an ambulance from St. Mark's heading your way, plus two squad cars. I'd advise you to hold your position, Mitchell_."

"_Mitchell to dispatch_," issued the harried voice again, "_I need you to send in an EMS. Get the paramedics in. This guy's down and he's losing blood. Do you copy?_"

He isn't getting through, realizes Helen. For some reason he isn't getting through.

"_Mitchell, this is dispatch_," the woman's voice came through slower this time around. "_Do you have an eleven-fifty-eight?_"

_Of course all radio traffic is being monitored_, recognizes Helen in mounting frustration. Who was training the dispatchers these days? Five-year-olds? As the woman on the frequency tried unsuccessfully to communicate with the officer, Helen scowls – the expressive sign of displeasure hidden beneath her hood – and guns the small engine to life.

* * *

She weaves in and out of Gotham's nightlife, inciting rude gestures and colourful remarks from drivers and pedestrians alike. She smiles sardonically. It was funny really, how they could be stirred into a rage through her less-than-perfect maneuvering, but how her masked get-up elicited nothing more than a fleeting glance. Just another one of Gotham's freaks out and about. Nothing to make a fuss over.

She drives past the monument at Gotham's center, past Wayne Tower, and finally into its suburbs. The taller, more industrial buildings, gradually give way to cookie-cutter houses with pastel-coloured siding. This side of Gotham was a little easier on the eyes – street lamps illuminated many a corner, and it looked like the neighbourhood folk actually gave a damn about upkeep.

Pulling her thoughts back into the now, she cranks up the volume on her CB. The anxious dispatcher has now called two squad cars to Officer Mitchell's location. Communication from his end has died for over ten minutes now.

Ten years ago, she would've hoped for the best. She would've allowed room for optimism. But this was Gotham, and Helen was...well, Helen.

Times were changing – especially for old-timers like herself and that other do-gooder up on the north side. What was his name? Her eyes spark in recognition. The Flame. He was a good kid, really. Well, not a kid anymore, but definitely a good sort. He'd managed to thaw an icy relationship between two of the more dominant _mafiosa_ in Gotham; the Esteban and Falcone lot. For a while there, it looked as if all hell would break lose, civvies would be caught in their bloody crossfire; the whole situation was too hot to handle. But The Flame was smart. He knew how to appeal to their egos – how to play to their pride, their actions, their honour. Here, Helen grunts in irony. _Honour_. It used to count for something, even amongst Gotham's most ruthless and powerful families. There were occasions where their conscience would conveniently take an extended leave of absence, such as when Billy the Barracuda refused to let the Falcone family invest in his growing casino franchise. Billy never really stood a chance. But then there were times when the Falcone family would make a promise, for good or ill, and hell would've frozen over before they broke that oath.

But now, now things were different. Something more amoral than avariciousness and power-lust was sweeping into Gotham. To her, it almost seemed like a new breed of criminal was on the ascent. _Conscience?_ Forget conscience. Some of the murders she'd heard about from the Flame and other crime-fighters seemed so senseless. So unnecessarily painful. And _honour?_ Pfeh. You might as well chuck _that_ in the middle of the Pacific. The old alliances were crumbling, shattering; its former marbled slate a little more than dust in the wind. Gotham's mob lords were feeling it too. Sure, they all had enough of the mighty dollar to buy many a protective goon, but their fresh henchmen were unreliable. Tainted. Tainted by this new breed. See, the problem was that this contemporary form of dynamic invasion brought down the whole concept of a _family enterprise_. These new desperados were horribly limited to short-term perspectives, ties and familial bonds of kinship meant nothing. _And_, wondered Helen sadly and with considerable unease, that was the only thing she had on them. Everything else: the disconnected murders, the kidnappings without ransoms, the muggings of miscreants even poorer than themselves – it made no sense.

The metamorphosizing violence is something that eludes her grasp. As she drives along the empty roads, she feels pressured, collared into a corner. Gotham's underworld will soon have no room for the likes of her, and she soon finds herself wishing for days of old. Where she could crack down on illegal betting joints, brothels, and the occasional Tony whacking Johnny 'cos Johnny never paid his dues. But life isn't static, at least not in Gotham.

Adapt to survive.

She doesn't think she'll last for much longer.

As soon as she pulls up to the end of the block, she sees the darkened lights of a police car up in the distance. Her eyes scrutinize the sides of the road for unusual activity, but the sleeping Toyotas, Hondas and Fords give her a bare nothing to go on. Of course, to her trained eye, that didn't mean much. There was no cause for alarm nor relief. The night – even with the dull and sporadic illumination of street lamps – gives off shadows, and shadows give off cover. She quickly parks her bike in the midst of the bushes, and walks around the back of the resting quiet of suburbia.

She sees the house at which the officer had reported to, and catches the glow of light, muted through opaque curtains. The back door, which leads to an open yard, is open.

_Fantastic,_ thinks Helen.

Her rubber-soled shoes – she'd got 'em on sale for $9.99 too, in the granny's aisle, no less – make no sound on the soft, trimmed grass. They're quiet as she ascends the wooden porch as well. The back door remains slightly ajar, and as she steps into what is the kitchen, an inviting aroma of roast chicken wafts its way up her nostrils. Her stomach growls at her. It never ceases to amaze her how her hunger always took precedence, even when juxtaposed against danger.

Helen moves gingerly into the kitchen, checking her corners diligently, and sees nothing of interest in the room save for the meal that's lying pitifully alone on the kitchen counter.

_Later_, she tells herself.

Her short trek into the living room reveals an inanimate figure on the floor, a small congealed mess of blood soaking into the carpet beneath the coffee table. This must be the guy the cop was talking about, thinks Helen. She does a quick sweep of the downstairs – checking underneath tables, in closets, in the bathroom. Everything seems clean.

_Where's Mitchell then?_

A floorboard creaks above her and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She gives a sharp glance towards the ceiling.

_Good Lord, are they still here? _

_Depends who 'they' are_, she answers herself. _The goody or the baddie?_

As quietly and stealthily as she can enable her feet to move, she begins the painfully laborious ascent to the second storey of the house. Laborious because she can't risk alerting them to her presence - she doesn't yet know what she's up against - and being furtive is hard. Especially in this creaky old house. Painful because the damned anti-inflammatory drugs her doctor gave her aren't working again. Her wrist is beginning to throb.

"Shove it then. Let's get out." issues a male voice; a gravelly baritone of one. It seems to be coming from the landing across the hallway.

"Are you _shittin'_ me?" comes out the second. "Man – we didn't even _look_ properly. And we hit the cop. Don't tell me we hit him for nothin',"

"You're really pretty dumb, aren't you?" The first voice is losing its patience. "Doesn't it even cross your mind that backup's probably on the way for this guy? _Huh?_"

"Man, no one ain't seen us yet. We're cool. Just chill, a'ight? I got everything under control."

Helens smiles in relief. They sound like a bunch of drugged up, amateur gangbangers. She can take 'em. No sweat.

With a newfound confidence, she charges up the stairs – opting for the element of surprise – and tackles the first, subduing him by bringing his arm around his back. The second looks on in awe, and this is his turning point. Is his incredulity going to morph into anger, or fear? _Gotta give the boy something to go on_. Helen howls; the sound eerie and raspy – the cry is something she's borrowed from a television documentary on feudal Japan. The second lad's eyes widen. _Good, it's fear then_. She nails him with a quick kick to his trachea, allowing for him to stumble backwards, gasping for air, while she deals with the first. The man in her hands is beginning to fight back. With a hackneyed eye-roll, she knocks his crown against the radiator. His now-unconscious body slumps to the floor. At this point number two is up, not prepared to wave the white flag just yet. But he _is_ waving a .22 her way. _Where'd he pick up that relic from?_

A crack echoes in the room, the sound is obscenely loud in her ears. Irritated now, she dives for his quaking knees and brings him crashing to the floor. Following a few moments of a messy scuffle – these kids never fight fair – he lies as still as his compatriot, and she's up against the wall, panting.

Helen feels her left shoulder sting, and knowing what that means, she rises awkwardly from her confined position between a computer desk and wall. _Cop. Gotta find the cop_.

And find him, she does, just as motionless as the other two hotshots, neatly hidden inside a bathtub downstairs. Bending over, she checks for a pulse, and a few tense moments follow before she detects a faint throb beneath her fingertips. At the same instant, she hears familiar sirens in the distance.

_About time_.

She gives one last look at poor Officer Mitchell, and then exits through the bathroom window and into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_Send us a blindfold, send us a blade  
Tell the survivors help is on the way  
I was a blindfold, never complained  
All the survivors singing in the rain  
I was the one with the world at my feet  
Got us a battle, leave it up to me_

_**Metric (Fantasies)**_

"Good God, Helen, what did you do? Finagle with some barbed wire or something?" says the white-coat before her.

Helen shrugs; her effort at nonchalance not quite convincing. "It's that jujitsu class..." she manages to mumble out, eager for the subject to be dropped. Well technically, it would be quite a relief to get everything off her chest. A lengthy confession regarding her nocturnal activities would serve her better than anything the good doctor could prescribe. But the best way to keep a secret, as her mother had always told her, is to keep your trap shut. It's the best kind of insurance. Maybe mother was right after all.

The good doctor snorts. "Jujitsu, _my ass_. I'm not an idiot, Helen. Humour me – just this once." The woman pauses, waiting. Helen stares blankly at her physician, mute. The doctor continues, throwing her hands up in the air in helplessness. "Okay, _fine_. Don't tell me. But the next time you come in here with a grazed shoulder – and it looks like it's the work of dodged bullet, mind you – yes! _A bullet!_ I told you I'm not an idiot,"

"It could have been a knife," offers Helen in a small voice.

"_Knife, bullet_ – it doesn't matter. What I would like to know is what an academic like yourself is doing; to be caught up in knife and gun fights like this. Do you have an abusive boyfriend or something?"

Helen's face puts on that inscrutable mask again, before contorting into fully fledged amusement. She breaks out into a heavy roll of chuckles, tears beginning to stream at the edges of her eyes. The doctor watches her patient carry on like for several moments before stepping back and nodding; unsure as to whether she should be offended or relieved. Finally, she settles on an emotional blend, smiling – yet not quite content at the belief that Helen was having a good joke at her expense.

"Alright. Alright. I had to speculate." remarks the doctor.

"Well, what did you think I was doing? Capering around Gotham at night? You're not gonna say I'm the Green Lantern now, are you?" Helen stymies a surging guffaw. "Oh come on, Susan, just patch me up. I have a class at noon, and this is just a scratch. _You_ know it, and _I _know it."

"It's one of _many_ scratches, Helen," rebuts Susan, not quite ready to relinquish her hold.

Helen rises from the green _bed-of-analysis_, as Susan often likes to refer to it, and starts to put on her brown corduroy jacket. "Well, it looks like I'll have to get rid of my schizophrenic cat then." She shakes her head. "Damned thing must think it's some kind of sculptor. And I'm the clay."

"You're allergic to cats," states Susan, her voice a monotone.

Strapping on her purse, Helen tucks a graying strand of hair behind her ear, and looks off into the distance, pondering. "Oh...you're right there. Well, I have to be off, Suze. Thanks for putting up with the last minute check-up – see you soon."

"I hope not. For your sake," mutters Susan, just as Helen shuts the door behind her.

* * *

As she walks into the office's waiting room, their departmental secretary glances up and smiles. The grin is short-lived, however, as the woman hands Helen her mail.

"I need the final exams, Dr. Grant," she says. She moves aside a potted poinsettia, its pot wrapped in overly-gaudy pink foil, so as to make eye-contact with the older woman.

Helen grimaces. "Was that this week? But the finals aren't until next week!" she exclaims.

The secretary gives Helen a patronizing look. The gesture is still patient, however. "I need to make copies. It was posted on the notice-board two weeks ago," And to prove her point, she rises from her small chair, shuffles awkwardly around the booth, and points to the used board with her well-manicured fingernails. Neatly tacked right to its center lies a yellow sheet; its message typed boldly and clearly: **All finals exams are to be turned into the head office by December 13****th****, to be distributed during finals week accordingly**.

Helen shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably. She never was one to balance facets well. "Oh gosh, Bernie, I forgot." She looks mortified and more than a little embarrassed.

Bernie sighs – perhaps this is an all-too-common ritual – in various aspects of her life. She is the mother of three children, after all. "It's alright. Just e-mail me the rough draft, and I'll try to polish it up for you."

Helen grits her teeth, lifting her eyes up sheepishly. She seems prepared for considerable admonishment. "Rough draft?"

Bernie shoots her a look: _are you kidding me?_ But she's much too polished and civil to spell it out. "How about you turn it in to me by the end of the week, then?" she says instead.

"End of the week? Yes, yes, that sounds great. When is – "

"December the seventeenth, Dr. Grant. It's a Friday. That gives you two days." interjects Bernie. "Here's your mail," the woman hands her a small stack of mail followed by a the morning's newspaper, "...and your daily news."

"I – uh, _thanks_, Bernie. For the extension. I don't – "

Bernie is already back at her designated post, dutifully carrying on with her activities. Without looking up from her work, she says, "Don't mention it, Helen. That's what I'm here for."

Helen smiles and walks into her office, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

**Earlier that morning**

**GCPD**

A hubbub of activity surrounds the main office; the shuffling of paper, the clacking of keys on computers, the incessant rolling rings of various telephones. Every instrument plays their part in this eccentric symphony, but it's simply white noise that filters through to each pair of ears in the large room. Every odd hour or so, a raving loon in handcuffs makes his debut, but save for his arresting officers, no one pays much notice. The desk officers sit buried in mounds of paperwork – their intermissions dominated by summons from their angry captain, or other harried detectives.

Two police officers sit outside the captain's room today, tired and worn. The first, a Sergeant Dillon, leans over his knees – hands clasped out in front of him. The second, Officer McKean, rests his head against the cold wall behind him. They've been waiting for over twenty minutes now, and Officer McKean's head tilts unconsciously to a side, the lull of sleep ever-present; even amidst the noisy racket of the local office orchestra. Finally, the captain's door opens, and a portly man steps out. Dillon is the first to rise from his seat, and spotting him, the captain beckons for him to enter. Dillon quickly rouses his companion, and the two stride into the quieter room, shutting the door behind them.

The captain wastes no time in cutting past pleasantries. He holds up a thin dossier. "Is this thing accurate?" he asks, referring to the report the pair had made regarding their most recent arrest.

Dillon, the braver of the pair when it comes to dialog with his superiors, speaks up first. "Yes, sir. We got to the scene probably twenty – thirty minutes after."

"So the perps were knocked unconscious by an already unconscious man, was that it?"

Dillon doesn't like where this is going, but there's no fixing anything; that's what he and McKean had written in their report anyway. "Yes sir. There was no evidence of anyone else in the house."

The captain shuffles through the papers in the file as he speaks. "Since when did you make detective, _Sergeant_ Dillon?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't get you," mumbles a confused Dillon. His partner, McKean, shuffles uncomfortably beside him. He quickly places fidgeting fingers behind his back.

"When did you make _detective?_"

"I didn't, sir. I'm a sergeant."

The captain does an effective job of feigning ignorance, and a downright awarding impression of innocent pretense. "B-but, I thought that since you effortlessly reconstructed the crime scene, you _must _be a detective!"

Dillon and McKean don't know what to say. Sergeant Dillon stares blandly at his captain. McKean, through weariness or an appreciation for macabre humour, manages to morph an oncoming grin into a short yawn.

Emphatically jerking an index finger their way, the captain's act dissipates instantly, only to be replaced by reddening anger. "You do _not_ make assumptions like this on the freakin' job unless we _pay_ you do make assumptions. And _boy_, we ain't paying you. Because of your completely classless _thesis_ here," the captain waves the report in the air vigorously, "we've missed a good opportunity to catch our whacked out vigilante." The captain regards his underlings for several moments before issuing a defeating, dramatic sigh. As he walks towards his desk, he resumes unleashing his reprimands. "How on _earth_ did you two morons string this together without consulting Officer Mitchell anyway? He's still in the ICU at St. Harper's, and to my knowledge he's unconscious and in no condition to be entertaining visitors. So how did you two geniuses do it? Did you use a psychic medium? Did you consult Madame Gabor on that 1-800 number? Tell me, please, 'cos I would really like to know,"

Dillon takes a tentative step forward. "I'm sorry, sir. I – it was late, and we were tired. We – uh, _assumed_ that since the two suspects were knocked unconscious, and Officer Mitchell was on the scene already – "

"Officer Mitchell was downstairs. The two perps were lying unconscious in the study upstairs." interjects the captain. "Did you think that Officer Mitchell had an out-of-body experience and maybe assaulted them with the power of his _mind_?"

"No sir. We thought that maybe Mitchell shot them down in the scuffle, and tried to make his way downstairs before he lost consciousness,"

The captain turns his eyes up towards the ceiling, as if appealing to the heavens for help. And sanity. His eyes quickly come to rest on the pair. "So you're a medical examiner now too? The perps were _not shot! _Not even _once_, or _twice!_ They were taken down by someone else! And now, thanks to you two, we've lost the chance of apprehending this _lunatic vigilante bat!_"

"The Batman?" speaks McKean, for the first time during this one-sided inquisition. "I thought he's not real,"

"He isn't real!" shouts the captain. "He only _thinks_ he's real – parading around in that circus costume. He's gonna be a real problem; he's not operating under the guidelines of the system. He thinks he's justice. And if he's gonna function like that, what happens if his neighbour pisses him off? What happens if the lady in the store cuts in line in front of him? Do you see where I'm going with this?"

A knock sounds behind the office door. The noise abruptly ends the captain's rant, but his anger has far from subsided. "Come in!" he exclaims, in a strained voice.

An unassuming face peers around the door. A mustached man with glasses glances between the two officers and the captain. The intelligent eyes quickly surmise what has been going on, and the voice speaks, apologetic. "Captain Munroe, I'm sorry. Didn't know you were in the middle of – "

"It's okay, Jim," says Munroe. He throws a scathing look in Dillon's and McKean's direction. "You two – get out of here. I want you to go back to that report and re-write everything that actually happened. And if I see a hint – and I mean even _one line_ – of commentary in that write-up, I'm gonna sit you both at the desk until you're ready to collect pension. You got that?"

The pair nod in hurried agreement, and leave Munroe's office thankfully. The mustached gentleman walks in, and the captain gestures for him to sit down.

"You want a drink, Jim?" he asks – formalities barred for the time being, nodding in the direction of his makeshift liquor cabinet. "I got some scotch the wife missed,"

Lieutenant Gordon smiles. The captain is completely at ease with him; he owes Gordon a lot. He also realizes that he wouldn't be here, even to hold so simple a meeting, without the likes of the lieutenant. His gratitude is adamantine. After all, getting through AA meetings is a remarkable feat altogether. But getting through them _anonymously_ – regardless of the renowned intervention program's name – is a formidable task all on its own. Had Internal Affairs caught wind of Munroe's throes with alcoholic oblivion, there would have been no more Force, no more Captain – _period_. He needed to get away from the bottle, but he was inadvertently skilled in implying that the bottle always made its way to him. And so, it took a man of considerable character to step up to the plate, to throw away the vodka and bourbon, and to drive him home on the nights where his driving could constitute involuntary manslaughter. In other words, it took a man like James Gordon to wean him off the indelible drink.

So yeah, he was grateful.

"Thought you liked your coffee black; not laced with alcohol," comments Gordon, his eyes wrinkling at the edges.

"Gotta cave in once in a while, Jim. Occupational hazard and all that," mutters Munroe.

Gordon jerks his thumb behind him. "You mean those two rookies? Come on, Alex. Don't you remember _being_ them – even at one point in your life? _You_ especially – I mean, you must've given your lieutenant a coronary!"

The captain sits down in his seat, musing. He chuckles softly. "Yeah. How I got to be _this_ old – I'll never know."

_Gotham does that to you_, recognizes Gordon. _It has its ways_. "Ah, never mind. A little berating won't hurt 'em. Toughens them up." _They'll need it_.

Munroe quickly shakes off the nostalgic reverie. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway. I wanted you to check into something for me. You saw that loon that set fire to that building downtown, didn't you?"

_The Batman didn't start the fire. The SWAT team that was trying to kill him managed that all by themselves. And he saved my son from falling to his death_. "Yeah. I did."

"Seems like he might've foiled a robbery-in-progress too." begins the captain.

_And that's a bad thing – how?_ "The one that Office Mitchell was injured in, right? Yeah, I took a look at the report. You think it might be him?"

Munroe gives a slight nod. "Maybe. I mean, if we're lacking in one thing, it's a consistent M.O. Even the Green Lantern has one. Hell, anyone can see the Green Lantern coming a mile away, anyway. Can't be him. But this bozo – helpful or not – is going down a dangerous path. Vigilante justice is a vice only Hollywood can afford, but it should end there, Jim. If the people start idolizing this guy, we've got a real problem on our hands. First they idolize him, yeah? Then they imitate. And then we've got a whole gang of vigilantes on our hands." He stops to take a sip of his scotch, and then waves his hand in the air dismissively. "Forget flattery and imitation. Forget his following. What if we – if someone, _anyone_ – pisses this nut job off? What do we do? I don't know about you, but we've got enough scum like our resident mafia to deal with, let alone one guy who thinks he's the lone ranger,"

_Time to stick up for something, Jim_. "He doesn't strike me as altogether _impulsive_..." offers Gordon weakly. Almost immediately, he's ashamed of himself. Ashamed for not standing up for what this Batman represented.

"Well, if he didn't give you that impression before, he will now." Munroe opens his drawer and pulls out a ziploc bag containing some paper. Opening the bag reveals the items to be a greeting card and a small, evenly-cut piece of paper. As Munroe pushes it towards Gordon, the lieutenant recognizes the open face of a playing card, the front depicting the colourfully ostentatious Joker character. Gordon is reluctant to pick it up, but Munroe gives him a nod of non-verbal assent. There were obviously no fingerprints to be identified. The lieutenant then opens the greeting card. As he reads it, his eyes widen.

"Well, what do you think? Think this Bat-fluff is experimenting with his M.O.?" asks the captain.

Gordon swallows nervously. Whoever wrote the card, whoever it was – it certainly wasn't Batman. It was a little too sadistic. But of course, Munroe fails to see that. "I don't think it's the same guy," says Gordon.

Munroe gives him a look of incredulity. "Are you kidding me?" He points to the joker card. "He's telling us what he's gonna dress up as next. And who his next victim is gonna be,"

"The Batman goes after criminals, Alex. This – _this_ one is threatening the family of Gotham's patrons – its philanthropists. Batman wouldn't hit them. He wouldn't touch them." _There_, decides Gordon, _that's better_.

For a few moments, the captain regards the quiet man before him. They said that being a cop is fifty-percent detective work, and fifty-percent instinctual. For all the years and promotions that he had earned, the captain would unequivocally admit that Gordon was, by far, the better cop. Hell, he was the better _man_. Now some cops, they're ambitious. When a desk job isn't paying the bills, they want to be upped to patrol officer. When patrol officer doesn't bring in enough for the mild luxuries of life, working homicide and vice can really rack up good credentials necessary for advancement. Captain Munroe calls this a juncture of sorts; but this isn't a decision on whether to make detective is worth the trouble or not. It's never that trivial. Oh no, this is where a cop realizes _why _he's making detective; is it to accumulate tally marks representing each cracked case? It is to stroke their ego and to build a name for themselves? Or is it because taking each thug down means that another happy family is spared the criminal's wrath and envy?

It wasn't hard to figure out which category Jim Gordon was filed under.

That is why he likes him, after all. Sure, Gordon had been more than helpful when it came to helping the captain curb his drinking problem. But there was something else to the man. Something in him worth respecting. Worth paying attention to.

"You really don't think, then, that this card guy's the Batman?" asks Munroe, a little more willing now to consider an alternate possibility.

Gordon shook his head. "Look – between you and me – a vigilante this Batman may be. But he's not cold or crazy enough to do this," with that, the lieutenant holds up the greeting card, opens it and scrutinizes it again. His second evaluation doesn't dull the gravity of what he sees. Inside the card lies a snapshot of a family, dad, mum and son; all in ski suits, posing in front of the Alps. A happy vacation getaway. But their faces are grotesquely disfigured, the modified depictions sucking out the obvious high spirits from the original photo. Each face is crudely painted white, the hair; a painful neon green. But what cuts to Gordon the fastest is the boy's neck. A crimson red line slashes right through the demented caricature. Then, in the picture just below it is a Christmas tree; decorated with baubles – one in particular stands out. The boy's head hangs on a branch, grinning; with a blend of surreal horror. It's enough to make a parent sick. Heck, it's enough to agitate _any_ sane individual.

But that wasn't the clincher. The garish words beneath the photo seals the deal for him. He closes his eyes after he re-reads them for the second time. This isn't the work of hit men, or even the most twisted of mob bosses. This seems to be the work of...a comedian gone wrong.

Gordon hands the card back to Munroe, who reads the text aloud, much to the lieutenant's discomfiture.

"I wish the most warmth and love to your family that the season can bring. May you _decollate_ your home with good spirits and happiness." The captain looks up from reading. He seems drained. "_Decollate_. Well."

"Yeah."

"You know of any goombahs...or _leaders_ of goombahs who prefer decapitation to clean-cut gunshot wounds?" Munroe knows the guess is a long shot, but he has to ask anyway.

"No. It's not the Estebans. It's not the Falcones. Family's off limits to them, remember?" states Gordon, well aware of a long-standing oath between mob broods to never involve family members in vendettas.

"Maybe not. Could be we got a full-scale war brewing in our hands," and as soon as he says it, he knows it's too far from the truth. "Hell, what am I saying? Who'd wanna hit the Williams? They've never interfered with any sort of politics, let alone the civics of mafia heads,"

"Don't forget that the target's a ten-year-old," reminds Gordon, as if Munroe needs reminding. The lieutenant jerks his head towards the now-shut card. "Did you send it down to forensics?"

"We got nothing on it, Jim. Nada. Prints came out clean. UV-tests came out clean. I did send copies down for a hand-writing analysis, though. Should get the results sometime today." explains the captain.

"I've never seen the likes of it in my life, Alex. The Williams' are loaded though, so my initial guess would be blackmail. Or a possible kidnapping. But blackmail usually comes with a list of demands, or instructions. And kidnapping – well, who sends threats before a snatching?" and then, as if an idea has suddenly struck him, he speaks up, worried. "You've alerted the parents, right? I mean, they know, don't they?"

Munroe rubs his tired brow. A small vein, right above his eye – unnoticeable, even to someone within close proximity – begins to twitch involuntarily. But he can feel its spasms. "Yes. They know. I told them to get out of the country for a while – you know, take an extended vacation."

"_And_...?" presses Gordon.

"They won't leave. Papa Williams says that he won't let himself, or his family, be bullied. No one has the right to tell them what to do. His words, of course. Thinks he's making some sort of statement. He asked me how seriously I was taking this threat – and whether our _artist_ here seemed dangerous, or just annoying. I told him we didn't know – but that we need to take every threat seriously unless proved otherwise. So he puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me that I'm doing a damned fine job, and that with me and my men protecting Gotham from these criminals, he has nothing to worry about."

Gordon scoffs. The action does not imply incompetence on the behalf of GCPD, but it reflects an overall lack of faith in their intelligence and resources. The Force was severely outnumbered by their dark-sided counterparts. Criminals – from the petty crook to deranged serial killers, gun men and assassins – were crawling out of the woodwork. And more often than not, no one had ever heard of them before, and no record or rap sheet detailed previous convictions. So, no M.O.s meant no quick arrests. If there were arrests at all. Each day on the job seemed longer than the last.

And Munroe knew how bleak their situation looked. _Boy_, did he know. "I don't know what to do, Jim. The press haven't gotten wind of this, thank goodness. But if we get more..._animations_ from this loon, I don't know how long I can keep a lid on it. Hell, we might even have to spread the word just so we can eke out a lead from somewhere."

Gordon disagrees. "Blowing the lid on it – that isn't the brightest of your ideas. Don't get desperate. At least, not yet."

"I got a strong feeling desperation's a breath away. We're in the dark as to the who's, why's and where's. _We need something to go on_,"

"I know. But we're not completely blind. Everyone leaves a trail, Alex. You know that," Gordon tries to sound reassuring – he's not doing a bad job of it.

Munroe leans forward in his seat and puts his hands onto his desk. "Will you handle the case?"

The question takes Gordon by surprise. Munroe is quite aware of his more kindly opinion of Batman, and is often reluctant to assign the lieutenant to cases that are plausibly linked to the so-called guardian. But it seems that his appreciation of Gordon's instincts surpass what Munroe views as misplaced trust.

Or maybe Munroe really _is_ desperate.

"Are you sure?" queries Gordon. "Our perp may not be the man you're hoping for," warns the lieutenant, referring to Batman.

Munroe lets out a heavy sigh. "No, he may not be. But we're on the same team here. Gotta catch the bad guys. If this sick trick is a joke – we'll know, and there's no harm done save for the lack of a couple nights of sleep. But if it _is_ serious..." here, his voice tapers off.

Gordon doesn't respond.

* * *

**A/N (09/15/09):**

**For the unfortunate few who've stumbled across this story, thanks for taking the time to read it. Reviews are always appreciated. I'm planning on making this story shorter than my average fic, and the same goes for my chapters. I intend for the story to take place over a period of two weeks or so; and I'm hoping to create an atmosphere where the reader feels as if they're bystanders - and that things are happening in real time. It's a little different - stylistically - from what I'm used to writing, but I wanna stretch myself a little in this piece. Sometimes, I know, I probably suck at this, so if you disagree with the creativity angle I'm taking here, and if the characters/plots seem misplaced, feel free to let me know, but please be diplomatic about it.**

**Thanks again for reading!**


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